Real Women’s Money Dramas

Jessica Lybeck, 25, Chicago

Three years ago I graduated from college and landed a job in Chicago as a designer at one of the most prestigious architecture firms in the country. It was a plum position with great pay—not your typical postgrad opportunity. Every day, I’d take the train to this gorgeous office on the tenth floor of a light-filled building overlooking Lake Michigan. There were meetings with prominent politicians at City Hall, after-work cocktails at chic bars, and business trips where I got to stay in five-star hotels. I could be generous with my friends and never needed to check my bank balance. If I couldn’t decide between four pairs of Italian shoes, I’d buy them all; when I found the bag or the scarf, I’d part with any amount necessary to have it. And I lived in a beautiful one-bedroom-with-fireplace apartment by myself instead of sharing it with a roommate.

But the glamorous perks didn’t make up for the fact that my job often felt corporate and impersonal. Yes, I got to work on a building for Harvard University and a bid for the 2016 Olympics, but I was just one of hundreds, even thousands, of people toiling away on those decades-long projects. Instead, I longed to work on a smaller scale and see all my projects through to the very end. I’d even started working toward that dream: In my free time, I helped one friend design and open her own boutique. The experience was so gratifying that I scaled back on my hours at the firm and started planning a consulting business to help other entrepreneurs through the start-up process. It seemed I’d found the perfect work balance: security plus freedom to grow.

Then, while I was on vacation in London (one of the most expensive cities in the world!), I got “the call” from HR. The firm was doing a round of layoffs and my job had—poof!—disappeared. I immediately went into survival mode. I’d already given up my nice apartment when I’d gone part-time, and now I flew home to set up camp in my live/work studio—complete with leaky skylight, tiny loft bed and a bathroom that I shared with my neighbors. Sneaking down the hall in my robe after a shower felt like college all over again, and not in a good way. My search for a bartending job that would leave days free for my business yielded nothing. I’d show up at the designated interview time and 35 other hopefuls would be lined up outside. I was inevitably rejected; it was obvious that bartending wasn’t my ultimate calling.

Eventually I found part-time work at a create-your-own-stir-fry restaurant, where I make four bucks an hour plus tips. Sounds depressing, but it’s not! That job allows me to devote 30 hours a week to my consulting company. So far I’ve helped eight clients—from a chiropractor to a music producer—open their doors, and nothing is more satisfying than that. I’ve also launched a website with friends called layoffmoveon.com. It’s an online space for people to share their tales of unemployment, find support and exchange job-hunting tips.

I’m sure there are people who think of me as some sad statistic. And to be honest, there are moments when I’ll be scraping pad thai off plates at the restaurant and think, How did I get here? And, Please don’t let one of my clients walk in and see me! Sometimes I do miss the sushi dinners, the Bottega Veneta shoes, the fridge stocked with good wine. But for those mornings when
I wake up anxious about how I’ll make rent, I’ve found the cheapest therapy in the world: I throw on my Nikes and run along the beautiful lake I used to just gaze at from my office window, stopping at the farmers market to smell fresh-cut flowers and buy an apple with some spare change. Then I jog home and get down to work.

Oh Well, There Goes the Family Inheritance

Caitlin Macy, 39, New York

My father grew up in a 40-room house among servants—butler, governess, housekeeper, cook, chauffeur, gardener. His father came from a prominent family and had gone on to make his own money, importing tea from China. My father was taught to dance, to shake hands with adults and say “How do you do?”, to
play tennis and sail. He spent his summers golfing at the Sleepy Hollow Country Club, and went into Manhattan to date girls who lived on Park Avenue. But by the time my dad was out of high school, the money was gone—lost to a couple of divorces, bad business and good old-fashioned overspending.

I grew up in a modest contemporary house in rural Massachusetts that had one shower for the four of us. I used to sit in my bedroom for hours poring over debutante photos of my aunt and grandmother; their Manhattan dressmakers’ bills; the family’s engraved Christmas cards—all the relics from my dad’s past that had been crammed into a manila folder in the back of a closet. For years I nursed a clichéd fantasy—of course at the time it seemed gallingly unique—that we Macys would somehow be restored to our rightful position, never mind that
my mother was a nurse practitioner, my dad owned the local travel agency, and they had been forced to remortgage the house to keep the business going.

Dad, however, did not seem to share the sense of comparative deprivation that my sister, Jem, and I nursed. He loved the house he and my mother had built because it was at the edge of a large pond; we could skate in the winter and canoe and swim in the summer. When Dad told stories about his childhood in
the “big house” (now razed) in Ossining, New York, he spoke in the uninflected tones with which one remembers an amusing but insignificant grade school acquaintance. There was the Christmas, for instance, when he and his brother and sister took all of the presents they’d been given and put them in a pile and jumped on them. That was one of the funny stories. Others rankled me, like the day his older brother, Ollie, died at the age of 13, and Dad was chided for not exhibiting enough sorrow.

In contrast, my early life was an elaborate, extended show of parental support. We couldn’t afford the Bermuda cruises my dad sold to his clients, but he and I went hiking in the White Mountains every year, just the two of us. He was one of those parents who are embarrassingly dedicated about driving their children everywhere—three and a half hours back to school after spring break; five hours up to Maine for the summer job.

And yet the sense of want persisted. Wishing my father would act the part of the preppy dad more, my sister and I would mutter and cringe when he’d show up for a parents’ weekend wearing his paint-stained sweatshirt instead of the requisite blue-blazer-and-gray-flannel uniform. She and I had nasty fights over who would get what society newspaper clipping or photograph or pocket watch from our dad’s past. If you had asked me why, I would have said, I just want something—anything—to show for it.

These days I do have something. It’s a painting that we had in our house in Massachusetts when my sister and I were little: an oil painting of the William H. Macy, a clipper ship that had once belonged to our family. Twenty years ago, while I was away at boarding school, my dad sold it to raise some cash to save his struggling business and pay for our tuition. The wailing and lamenting and teeth-gnashing from me and my sister that followed this decision baffled and irritated my father. He was prompted, finally, into stating the obvious: that he didn’t have any respect for his father, that nothing good had come from him, and that he’d rather see us in good schools than hold on to a piece of old art. Nevertheless, in the years after the painting was lost, Jem and I vowed to find it and buy it back. For 15 years I kept another manila folder—this one labeled “Jacobsen” (the artist)—in my to-do pile. One surreal day two years ago, the Jacobsen came up for auction. My husband and I had a long, somewhat agonizing talk about it. It was expensive, a major investment for us. The price hurt. I took a big gulp, feeling guilty, and bought back the heirloom.

When my dad came to visit, I suggested he take a look at my new acquisition. He has macular degeneration, so he had to get up very close to the painting in order to see it. “Is it the ship?” he said finally. When I told him yes, he whistled and said, “How about that.” He seems glad to have it back in the family, not because it means much to him, but, I think, because he knows it mattered to us. As for me, the minute I hung it on the wall, it struck me as too conservative, the kind of thing—I realized with a start—that aspirational, strive-y people buy to look like old money. Now that I had my own family (my husband and two girls) and my own career, the hunt for the ancestral grail seemed silly and a bit misguided. And yet today the painting still hangs, reminding me less of any distant ancestry than of my dad’s belief in our education. If I ever got into a tight spot, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow Dad’s example: Sell the thing and put it toward my own daughters’ futures.

Caitlin Macy is the author of The Fundamentals of Play and Spoiled. She lives in New York City with her husband and two children.

Confessions of a Shopaholic’s Wife

ZZ Packer, 36, Austin, Texas

One of the things that first attracted me to my husband, Mike, was his
complete set of wineglasses. The first time I went over to his hip place in Ashbury Heights in San Francisco, we were looking at the fabulous view, drinking cabernet and talking, and I suddenly realized, Hey, none of my other boyfriends owned wineglasses! I was still in grad school, where we drank our vino out of mason jars, so dating Mike was like finally dating a grown-up—a smart, handsome, charming grown-up with a real job as a marketing executive at a technology company. I fell hard.

I quickly learned that Mike owned a lot more than wineglasses. He had everything: a stainless steel KitchenAid mixer, a pasta maker, a nice vacuum cleaner that he never used, cameras so small they could fit in your wallet, a camera so big you’d mistake it for the Hubble telescope. He indulged himself, but also others. He wouldn’t just give you the shirt off his back; he’d go to Brooks Brothers and buy you a few as well. (Then he’d get himself
a few shirts to replace the one he gave you, and some slacks and a couple of ties while he was at it.)

At first I greeted his new purchases with the reverential awe of a yokel getting her first taste of the big city: Wow! I did not know a rearview mirror Bluetooth speakerphone even existed! Could he really afford it all? The thought crossed my mind, but it wasn’t my primary concern. I was a congenital saver and operated under the assumption that only crazy people bought what they couldn’t afford. What did start to bother me, as we grew more serious, was the excess of it all. In my single-mother, lower-middle-class family, I was taught that frugality is the holy grail, so wanton spending on gadgets and paraphernalia did strike me as a little unsavory, a little gluttonous.

Aside from this, Mike was my perfect fit: We both talked incessantly about politics, loved history, loved telling stories, loved each other. So, afraid to ruin a promising relationship by nagging him about his lifestyle, I told myself that if he worked hard—and he did—he also deserved to play hard. Then I told myself that it was his money, and if he ran into financial problems, they would be his problems, not mine. Then I ran out of things to tell myself and simply turned a blind eye to it all.

Fast-forward two years. We’d gotten engaged, but we still kept our bank accounts and credit cards separate. By now we’d bought a house together; I handled the down payment with my savings and a timely book advance, and he had the steady income to help us qualify for a (reasonably affordable) mortgage. I’d nearly become inured to Mike’s spending by then. One day he’d have a complete home gym moved in, another day a hundred-gallon fish tank. He’d buy an iPod, then an iPod shuffle, then a nano. A few days before the wedding, I looked out the window and noticed a Lexus SUV occupying our street parking space.
I made a comment to Mike about it. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s my new car. We needed something safer.”

“Your what?!”

I couldn’t believe he’d make such a major purchase without consulting me—without even mentioning it to me. I told him to take it back. He sweetly asked me to stop worrying and said it was only on lease. This was not a joke, I realized, and vowed to get counseling as soon as we got back from the honeymoon.

But we didn’t get counseling. We dived back into our busy lives and fell into a vicious cycle: He’d make a purchase, I’d feel enraged and powerless, he’d promise to mend his ways, I’d trick myself into believing him. That’s how desperate I was to convince myself that the overspending was his issue to deal with. As I was about to find out, of course, this is not the way relationships—especially marriages—work. To share one’s life with someone is to share it all: the joy, the success, the sex, the sadness, the snoring…the debt.

Previously Mike had brushed off his credit card debt whenever I became concerned enough to ask about his balance. But when he drove up one day in yet another new car (we were up to three now), I knew the game was up. “How much do you owe?” I demanded. “And I don’t want a ‘guesstimate,’ either.” We sat down and swapped Visa statements: I owed about $2,000. He owed more than $33,000.

Granted, he’d charged a lot of our home renovation materials to his card, but still…it was time for that marriage counselor. With her help, Mike and I figured out what we’d been saying to each other through money. Mike had grown up poor, so he tended to fill whatever void he felt by spending money. It turned out I felt similarly, but I filled the void by hoarding money rather than spending it. Knowing this about ourselves has made it easier to talk about money without so much passion and anger. I have figured out that the kind of security I need won’t come from a stockpile of savings alone; he now understands that contentment cannot be bought.

When the economy tanked right before the 2008 election and companies were laying off people left and right, Mike went from working 50-hour weeks to just squeaking by as a consultant. This time, though, instead of limiting his job search to très expensive San Francisco, he decided, at last, that looking for work in a more affordable city with a better real estate market was the best way to regain control of our financial destiny. Believe me, I
welcomed the idea. If we were going to continue being with each other—and there were times when I didn’t know if we would—we had to change everything: how we lived, where we lived, and especially our attitudes about money.

This is how we came to reside (as of a few months ago) in Austin, Texas, a city that prides itself on cheap eats, reasonable housing prices and a bustling cultural life. Mike found himself a great tech job here, and I can walk (instead of drive) to the university where I teach. As for our marriage, we are still struggling to make it work, taking it one day at a time. When we drink wine, it’s not from the expensive Riedel crystal that broke over the years, but from the fun and funky mismatched wineglasses we picked up at the Texas Thrift Store. It is a second lease on life—and finally, it’s a lease we can afford.

ZZ Packer is the author of Drinking Coffee Elsewhere and the forthcoming The Thousands. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her family.

From Prada to Nada

Marnie MacLean, 39, Los Angeles

Every month since I graduated college, money would magically appear in my bank account. It was enough to pay for the mortgage on my four-bedroom house in the Hollywood Hills, all the bills, a $2,000 LeMond bicycle, a running supply of Crème de la Mer, kick-ass Prada boots and five pairs of $29 Cosabella panties at once (I couldn’t decide on one color). I got my highlights and nails done at fancy salons, went to the theater a lot, traveled to Europe first-class and bought yet more things I didn’t need without looking at the price tags. I was one of those people you hate: I lived off a trust fund. It never occurred to me that one day the money wouldn’t be there, until suddenly it was gone.

On December 11—four days before my 39th birthday—I was taking a bath when I got a call from one of my oldest friends. “Bernie Madoff was arrested for fraud,” Jenny said between sobs. “My money is invested with him. What does this mean?” Until that moment, I’d never even heard of Bernie Madoff; all I knew about my money was that, whenever I overspent, I could call the Big Finance Guys and ask, “Could I get five more g’s this month?” I told Jenny to call my mom, whom I’d always considered financially savvy.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was my mom. “Jenny has to speak to you—all her money was with Bernie Madoff!” I blurted. I heard mom crying. “So was all of ours, honey,” she said. “So was ours.”

I was so shocked, I couldn’t speak at first. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I said, finally. And she answered, “No, I’m so sorry for you. Your money is gone, too.” My husband, Neil, who was standing next to me, took the phone and told my mom, “We have each other—Marnie and I are always here for you. We’re all going to be OK.” All I could think was, What is going to happen to us?

The second we hung up, I jumped on the Web and read about Madoff. I found out he founded Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities, L.L.C. and had conned people out of more than $65 billion with a Ponzi scheme—a scam that uses newer investors’ money to pay high rates of return on the older investors’ money. When the economy crashed and everyone wanted out, Madoff was caught after confessing the fraud to his sons. In June, a judge sentenced him to 150 years in prison.) For legal reasons, I can’t reveal exactly how much I lost, but let’s just say it was in the millions.

I’m pretty sure that if I’d seen it coming, I would’ve gotten a job at some point in the past 20 years. Instead, I spent my time acting in plays and taking improv classes and voice lessons. Often I felt like I had no purpose in life. I tried to find one by getting a master’s in spiritual psychology. I saw an endless slew of New Age healers and psychics (funny, no one mentioned this was in my future). I never brought in a real paycheck, and it didn’t matter: I had all the money I needed and hope that later I’d figure out what I wanted to do when I grew up. And then in three seconds, “later” arrived.

At the time, Neil and I had been married for a month. We’d met at the dog park two years before, where I was charmed by his Scottish accent, skinny rock ‘n’ roll look and wicked sense of humor. Our backgrounds couldn’t be more different; he’s a camera grip from a blue-collar family in Scotland. My family always had money. Our fairy-tale wedding cost more than he earns in six years.

As I sat there, gasping at the computer screen, I turned to Neil and said grimly, “I guess you thought you were marrying someone else.” Without skipping a beat, he said, “Can’t miss what you never had.” And then he added, half-jokingly, “Hey, if we lose the house, we can get an RV and park closer to the dog park!” We hugged, and he said, “Marnie, we’ll survive, even if it’s on the cheap.” For some reason, that wasn’t very consoling.

A few days after I got that phone call, I went for a walk on the beach with a close friend. I was depressed and scared, but it wasn’t until that day that I really cried. I wore this pricey wool hat from Barneys that I loved. Somehow I left it at the beach, and when I realized it on the way home, the tears began. To me, the hat was my former life.

I spent the next few weeks drowning my denial in bottle after bottle of white wine. The stress eventually landed me an overnight stay in the hospital; my stomach was in such knots that I felt like I was getting an ulcer. I realized that I had to stop running away from the situation and confront it. It’s a good thing the Scots are known for their money-hoarding ways (isn’t MacFrugal a clan or something?), because I had a lot to learn.

Neil and I are doing everything we can to keep our home, including looking into refinancing. His income is paying the mortgage, for now, but we might have to downsize; nothing is certain anymore. We’re finding ways to cut back, like getting cheaper car insurance and eating at home instead of going out. I’m planning a clothing swap with 10 girlfriends (though I think I’ll keep the Cosabella panties) and doing my own nails and highlights. We’ve returned some of our wedding gifts for store credit that we could use to buy more stuff. Recently, we had a dinner party. Costco did the catering.

Maybe you’re rolling your eyes right about now and thinking, Ohhh, poor little former rich girl. Believe me, I realize I’ve had a good life so far, and I still have the house, one source of income and my whole life ahead of me. My dear friend’s mother, a 78-year-old diabetic, had exactly $8 left to her name after Madoff made off with her nest egg. She’s had to borrow from friends just to pay for her medications.

Even if I’m relatively OK, though, I’m still angry—wouldn’t you be? I’m furious for myself, my family, my friend’s mom and the thousands of other people who lost their investments, along with the charities and do-good foundations. And, yes, I miss my money. Especially the security it gave me, though now I realize that security was never really there.

In my quest to live a life of less frivolousness (not like I have a choice), I’m hoping to find more purpose and security in myself. Someday I hope to look back at this time and realize it pushed me to be a better person—a full-fledged adult who is engaged in the world and not living days that circle around shopping and other material pursuits. But for now, I’ll just say—